


Cherished

by worstcommander



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Intercrural Sex, Light Dom/sub, Massage, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worstcommander/pseuds/worstcommander
Summary: He surrounds her and she feels small.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commanderlurker (honeybee592)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/gifts).



> I am so thrilled at the opportunity to write this pairing for you. I hope you like it!

He's already set the scene. Cheese and wine on the side table, drapes drawn and various cats shooed, a fire burning merrily in the hearth. 

The man himself is set as well, deliberate as any of the other preparations he's made. The Iron Bull should make a mockery of her small side couch, his bulk spread from arm to arm, one thick leg thrown over the back as he reclines, but somehow he enhances instead of overwhelms. Makes the furniture seem a part of him instead of a woefully inadequate human offering, small beneath him, and-

Oh, Maker, it's just a couch. A smile from the man on it, no longer pretending to read the book he'd likely plucked off her shelves. Warm and wide, promising the secrets they'll make tonight between the two of them, the things he'll ask she can't yet guess. 

She's used to it by now, she knows that the anticipation, that little shiver of mystery. More importantly, she knows he won't take it too far. Just like the ribbons he winds around her, a cage of silk capturing, restraining - but a cage she can always escape. She's always safe, with him, pushing her boundaries beyond what she could have ever thought possible of herself. Challenged but supported.

Bull's in a good mood. He always is, when he has something good planned. Hums around a bit as he steers her to the bed, something quiet and tuneless but familiar in snatches. Something from the tavern, likely, and when she recognizes it later she knows she'll blush from ear to ear at this memory, blush harder at his knowing smile as she does.

The ropes and the ribbons are nowhere in sight, nor the usual - well, unusual - trappings. A question dies on her lips at his look. You'll know soon enough, it says, and that has her mind racing again at the possibilities. Nothing too new, if he's holding his cards close to the chest like this. Bull as a lover is a hard but uncommonly gentle man, teasing her cruelly for hours at the edge of relief one night but showing her his latest purchases from Orlais the next, explaining each in such frank detail as to make her wilt in embarrassment while she turns it over in curious hands. Choosing only the ones that make her smile and blush, then applying them with such enthusiastic depravity she fears she'll alert the whole of Skyhold. Corypheus, for that matter, all holed up in… well, wherever he is, her cries echoing off the walls of some loathsome sulking chamber. 

They've reached the bed, her knees knocking back against the crisp sheets. None of the usual linens, tonight, the plush velvets and satins Josephine had all but wrapped her in over her own protestations that Trevelyans (and most certainly Ostwick Trevelyans) weren't like that.

Last time he'd stripped down the bed, it ended in Bull unsuccessfully trying to drink fresh cream out of her navel while she giggled and squirmed. Where the night goes now is up to him, but if Grace Trevelyan is being quite honest with herself, she hopes it doesn't revisit that particular meal.

He pushes her back into the pillows, the instruction to stay still as loud as if he'd voiced it. She loves his voice, all deep and rumbly, especially when his chest is pressed against her back and she feels it, as if he's speaking through her skin. There's something about the silence, though, the way he moves her and arranges her just so, as if she's a precious and breakable thing that requires such care. The silence of an artist. His hands on her hips, her thighs, her feet…

Then he… unties her boots? Removes her heavy wool stockings, folds them carefully and sets them aside. She shivers at the first touch of his fingers on the arch of her foot. He's watching her, eyes fixed on her face as he tries a light little flutter against the sole. Seeing if she's ticklish, she realizes, as he notes her sudden squirm and ceases.

"Stay still," he says, and it's a gentle warning tone. He won't hurt her, but he'll stop, and she knows it. She doesn't want him to stop, even if all he's doing is - oh, oh. He's kneading her feet now, and it feels so good. Everything about him makes her feel small, her feet dwarfed by his strong, large hands. She never realizes how tense she is until he starts to undo it, with words or jokes, touches or a tankard of beer set at her elbow.

Sometimes she thinks he knows her better than she knows herself, perhaps.

Up her calves now, with an attention that's single minded. He hits a knot and she has to suppress the urge to bend, to stretch up into him. Stay still.

He works up her thighs over the leather breeches, and she's on edge. He's digging circles into her thighs, moving closer to the center of her, and she can feel herself getting wet with anticipation. She knows what those hands can do, those strong fingers, once he pries her legs apart and-

He pulls back and she bites down on a groan.

"Less clothes."

Sometimes he helps her disrobe. It's part of their ritual, his hands teasing; skating up her sides, caressing her ribs, but this time he turns to remove his own clothing, leaving her on her own. She still does it with care, as if he were watching, folding each items in an echo of the stockings. 

He directs her to lie onto the bed, on her stomach, sinking into the softness of the down mattress. Sinking too far, maybe, her face in the middle of a fluffed pillow. She turns her head, unsure if she's allowed this movement. He draws a finger down her jaw.

"Stay there," and then, quieter "Relax, Inquisitor." Not like the way the others say it, pleading or biting. Not Cullen's frustrated bark or the waft of Josephine's questing voice across the courtyard as she scurries to make herself scarce. Between them, a formality only they two would understand. She closes her eyes, sinks in.

She can feel the bed shift, if not see it. She imagines that she can sense him by his warmth - he's such a large presence. He's gone and then back, completing her, but he doesn't move for a moment. She can imagine his eyes on her, imagines what he sees. It brings another flood of wetness.

A cork pop, then something new on the span of her back. Oil, she realizes, even as she fights to keep still, not squirm. Warm - he must have done that. Every detail is always perfect, with him. The process is part of the appeal.

He continues the massage. As he rubs the oil in, she's aware of the scent - light and floral, underscored by something dark and primal. HIS scent, she realizes, the familiar musk of his own arousal. It feeds her own, that he is so turned on by the simplicity of her own pleasure.

He massages her whole body, every body part worthy of his undivided attention. It's torment, some of it - slow, broad strokes across her back and thighs, but when he gets to her hands and feet - excruciating delicacy, each digit caressed in turn, almost unbearably slow and careful.

His touch grazes the side of her breast, the cleft of her ass, but lingers no longer there than anywhere else. She catches herself calling his name, but breathes it heavily into the warmth of the room instead.

She's relaxed, liquid, floating, but not so far away that she can't feel it when he removes his hands. She does whine, then, a small sound, pathetic to her ears, slipping from her faster than she can stop it. She stills, realizing her error.

His hand on her shoulder is heavy, solid, a warning and a grounding. "Stay there," he repeats, but it's low and warm, and the hand squeezes before it disappears. A reassurance for her, always, and it brings a tightness to her throat. 

One moment he's gone and the next he's everywhere, his huge warm body covering hers. At first, he waits - just lying across her back, his skin barely touching hers, but she's aware of him over every inch. His powerful thighs are bracketing her legs and she can feel between them… HIM. Full and heavy, the proof of his arousal. 

He leans down, his lips soft against her ear. "Just like that. Stay."

Then he starts moving. He's so large, so overwhelmingly large - he could crush her without care. But there is care, always so much care in the way he treats her. Not fragile - not like the rest of them, thinking her weak. She's never weak beneath him but sheltered, protected. Like she is now, the span of his upper arm blocking her vision, his lips on her ear. He draws his body up against her, a slide of skin on skin, smooth and slick with the oil. He groans.

Large hands on her hips, tugging upwards, and she complies without thought, surrounded on all sides by the intoxication of him - slick, scarred skin, the heavy smell of sweat and sex. His purpose soon becomes clear as he pushes between the apex of her thighs, hot and hard and insistent. She thinks for a moment he means to enter her, but the large blunt head of him simply rubs across her lips, mixing oil and her slick, his scent and hers mingling as he thrusts experimentally. He slides between her thighs and she clamps them together without thought, drawing another groan.

He's large - large everywhere but especially here, so thick and long she thinks she can feel him forever, pushing down between her things, drawing back up, each stroke creating a delicious friction as he slides messily over her center. It's a steady pleasure, building slowly with his rocking movements until suddenly it spikes, a harsh thrill as one sure finger parts her folds to rest against her, pressing and circling with every absence and return of him.

She can feel his heartbeat through his chest, thudding against the slick skin of her back. She's rising along with him, her peak nearing in waves in time with his breath, coming harsher as he speeds and she can feel it at the edges now. It flutters, tightens, something deep within her beginning to pulse and the tears prick at her eyes at the strain of staying silent, saying still. There is no riding this wave, she is swept away by it as the tears finally fall, soaking the pillow beneath her cheek as his thrusting extends her peak, almost more than she can bear.

"Grace," is all the warning she gets, a groan barely more than a breath as he pulls away a bare moment before he joins her, spending himself on his hand, on her rumpled and oily sheets rather than her skin. Even in this, his care is evident, every detail perfect even as he's reaching the peak of his own pleasure.

In the end, the sheets are beyond repair, soaked in oil and the remnants of their lovemaking. and the only thing that stills her worried tongue is the knowledge that they'll disappear the next morning, before the servants have a chance to see even a bolster out of place, Bull working his quiet magic once more. They themselves, of course, are forced to spend the night on the floor, cuddled together in a nest of discarded blankets before the fire. Grace drowses against the meat of his upper arm, sated and heavy. Surrounded. Protected.

(Probably stiff and grumbling the next morning as they reluctantly rise to face another day as Inquisitor and bodyguard.)

Loved.


End file.
